"Decisions have to be made soon," she reiterated. "Everybody's too upset . . . this is too extraordinary a conclave for it to stay secret long."

Rogers agreed. The two returned to their LearFan Special and the plane's counterrotating props began to spin again, with eerie softness. Rogers returned to his truck and drove away from the airport as the plane whined into the blackness and silence of the overcast night.

Around the bogus cinder cone, for a distance of several hundred yards, soldiers patrolled well-lighted squares of the desert in Jeeps and on foot. Beyond the patrols and the fences, a mile from the object of their interest, the civilians gathered in trucks and vans and motor homes. Even this late, almost into the morning, campfires burned in the middle of wide circles of mesmerized watchers. Raucous laughter in one area was countered by gospel singing in another. Rogers, maneuvering his truck down the fenced approach corridor to the site, wondered if they would ever sleep.

Chapter 39

39

December 15

Two o'clock in the morning, the phone beside their bed rang, and Arthur came awake immediately, leaning forward to pick up the receiver. It was Ithaca Feinman. She was calling from a hospital in Los Angeles.

"He's going fast," she said softly.

"So soon?"

"I know. He says he's fighting, but . . ."

"I'll leave ..." He looked at his watch. "This morning. I can be down there by eight or nine, maybe earlier."

"He says he's sorry, but he wants you here," Ithaca said.

"I'm on my way."

He hung up and wandered into the living room to look for Francine, who said she had not been asleep, but had been sitting on the living room couch with Gauge's head in her lap, worrying about something, she wasn't sure what.

"Harry's going, or at least Ithaca thinks so."

"Oh, God," Francine said. "You're flying down there?"

"Yes."

She swallowed hard. "Go see him. Say . . . Say goodbye for me if he's really . . . Oh, Arthur." Her voice was a trembling whisper. "This is an awful time, isn't it?"

He was nearly in tears. "We'll make it through," he said.

As Francine folded some shirts and pants for him, he slipped his toiletries into a suitcase and called the airport to book a flight for six-thirty. For a few seconds, dithering in the yellow light of the bedside lamp, he tried to gather his wits, remember if he had left anything behind, if there was anybody else he should notify.

Francine drove him to the airport. "Come back soon," she said, then, realizing the double implication, she shook her head. "Our love to Ithaca and Harry. I'll miss you."

They hugged, and she drove off to get Marty ready for school.